


Fíli-Ficlets

by raiyana



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst and Feels, Awesome Dís, Baby Durins, Baby Dwarves, Babysitting, Big Brother Fíli, Childhood Memories, Concerning Hobbits, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fountain Fun, Fíli and Kíli Are Little Shits, Gen, Loss of Parent(s), Parent-Child Relationship, Thorin's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-12-04 07:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 18,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11550798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Fíli-Ficlets are an attempt at character exploration through snapshots of Fíli's life. These stories are told from different perspectives and characters, but they all concern Fíli, whether it be Fíli the small dwarfling, Fíli the youngster, Fíli the adult, or even Fíli-who-survives-BotFA...Many of these feature recurring OCs whom you may recognise from other works I've done. This collection(at least for pre-Zahrar stories) can be considered Fíli's background in dwelf-'Verse, and some will feature direct references, while others belong to different verses and story-lines.This is one of the things for which I take prompts, so feel free to comment here or on tumblr if you've got a situation you'd like to see Fíli handle.Marked complete, but may receive additional updates.





	1. Babysitting

**Author's Note:**

> Random ficlets from tumblr prompts(extra prompts are always welcome, even if it's not Fíli-centric). Either comment or drop an ask into [My Askbox](https://joyfullynervouscreator.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
>  
> 
> Not necessarily in same universe!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- Fili somehow gets volunteered to babysit
> 
> TA 2895 - Bolbur is a little over 5. Fíli is 36

It was a quite ordinary day in Thorinul- wait, he wasn’t supposed to call it Thorinuldûm, Amad said. It was an ordinary day in their Blue Mountains settlement, in Fíli’s opinion. He had had lessons with Balin in the morning, which had been less dull than usual, for a change, and even Kíli had been able to sit still as the Uzugbad told them about the Cold-Drakes and the destruction of Zeleg'ubraz. Uncle would be proud when he got back from being a smith, Fíli thought, happily skipping through the streets towards home.

“Oi, Fíli!” someone called. The young dwarf looked up, spotting the worried face of Mister Bofur, who had been one of Da’s friends, he knew.

“Good afternoon, Mister Bofur,” he replied politely, nodding a tumble of golden locks in the miner’s direction.

“Do me a favour, wee Fíli?” Bofur asked, and Fíli suddenly realised that the miner with the odd hat wasn’t alone. Behind his legs, Fíli spotted a small boy with dark brown curls peeking out. He nodded slowly. He was supposed to come straight home from Master Dori’s shop after his measuring today, but surely Amad wouldn’t be angry with him for helping Adad’s friend? Mister Bofur smiled. Pushing the small dwarfling forward, he said, “This is my nephew, Bolbur. Bolbur, this is the son of an old friend of mine and your Adad’s.” The small on nodded, staring hesitantly at Fíli, who smiled and gave him a little wave. The dwarfling gave him a gaptooth smile in return. “Could you watch him for an hour or two? My cousin’s had a bad turn and I need to get him some medicine from the healer.” Bofur continued. Fíli just nodded, holding out his hand for the little boy’s.

“Sure,” he said, pretending far more confidence than he possessed. He wasn’t used to hanging out with small dwarflings – Bolbur looked about 5 years old – but he told himself that it couldn’t be harder than trying to keep Kíli out of trouble. “I’ll take him back to the house. Amadel promised to make honey-cakes this afternoon.”

“Cake,” mumbled Bolbur, smiling widely at Fíli like he was the best thing ever to appear in the small marketplace.

“Alright, I’ll pick him up in an hour or two,” Bofur promised, before he ran off, a cloud of worry almost visibly surrounding him. Fíli stared at the small boy who had exchanged his grip on Bofur’s trousers for one on Fíli’s hand. His other was clutching a raggedy toy, obviously well-loved.

Judging the distance back to Amad’s house as longer than Bolbur could reasonably manage, Fíli had swung the smaller dwarfling onto his back and given him a pony-ride that had them both bursting with laughter by the time they arrived home. Dís – who had obviously been waiting for him – was standing on the doorstep, smiling when she saw him. Inwardly, Fíli cheered; he wasn’t in trouble for being home late.

“And who’s this wee one?” Amadel said, when Fíli sauntered into the kitchen, Bolbur once more having a firm grip on his hand as he stared around with wide eyes. Fíli felt very grown up.

“This is Bolbur,” he announced. “And this is Amadel.” He said to the small boy, who nodded shyly. Frís waved a flour-dusty hand towards them, making Bolbur giggle and wave back, before he darted back behind Fíli’s leg once more, his bravery spent.

“Well, lads, you’re just in time for honey-cakes,” Frís smiled, pulling a plate from the brick oven that Thorin and Dwalin had constructed three years ago.

Bolbur tugged on Fíli’s clothes, making the taller dwarfling bend down to his level. “Cak’?” Bolbur whispered. Fíli laughed. Swinging him up once more, settling the small body on his hip, Fíli pointed to the goldenbrown cakes.

“They have to cool a little,” he explained. “We’ll go find Kíli and then we’ll all have some.” Looking up from his small audience, Fíli caught Frís’ nod of permission and scampered happily up the stairs to his and Kíli’s bedroom where they found the dark-haired dwarfling asleep, tired out from his afternoon archery class to the point that he’d only managed to remove one boot and one arm guard before falling asleep.

“Let’s tickle him!” Fíli whispered conspiratorially. Bolbur giggled into Fíli’s shoulder, scrambling down from his hold and up onto Kíli’s mattress where he proceeded to tickle the sleeping dwarf.

“Fee, g’way,” Kíli mumbled, swatting at the height Fíli’s face would have been and hitting nothing but thin air. Fíli burst out laughing. Little Bolbur was giggling like mad, but kept tickling Kíli’s side. “Fee!” Kíli shouted, sitting up with a grumpy look on his face, his eyes blearily opening to find his older brother standing by the doorway with a smirk on his face. Kíli scowled, breaking into a laugh when the tickling continued.

“Amadel made honey-cakes, and we’re watching Bolbur until his uncle can pick him up.” Fíli informed him airily, easily dodging the boot the grumbling Kíli threw at him.

“Well, then,” Kíli smirked, picking up his little tormentor and handing him to Fíli, so he could put his boots back on. “To the Kitchen!” he cried, “last one there’s orc-bait!”

Fíli cursed. “You didn’t hear that,” he said, looking at the small dwarf in his arms. Bolbur nodded gravely, before Fíli swung him onto his shoulders and thundered after his laughing brother.


	2. Hobbits and Holey Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- After the unexpected party in Bag End, Fíli tells Kíli what he thinks of Bilbo

They’d made their beds together, like they’d done every night since leaving home. It was peculiar, Fíli thought, to be listening to the snores of the Company – different than only having to sleep through Dwalin and Balin’s snores; they were used to that sound. It felt oddly soothing to lie here in the Hobbit’s sitting room, staring at the hard-packed dirt ceiling that had been painted with some type of chalky white paint that made the rooms lighter than the few windows would have managed otherwise. Kíli wasn’t asleep either, he could see, his eyes turned towards the window by the front door where they could see a few stars against the darkened sky. His belly was almost uncomfortably full, but Fíli knew it was only a matter of time before he would be missing enough meals that he’d need the extra holes in his belt that Kíli had added before they left. Once they reached the Mountains, stepping over the Edge of the Wilds – Balin’s poetic name for leaving behind any true civilization – there would be only what they carried or hunted as they travelled, one of the tasks that would fall to Kíli and himself, he knew. Kíli’s skill with a bow – despite his youth, his little brother was the best archer in Ered Luin, and Fíli would have bet a fair amount that they’d meet no one better unless they came across Elves – had fed them before, when they were guarding caravans with Dwalin. He couldn’t even remember all the dishes he’d eaten tonight, but he almost wished the Hobbit had not been so cowardly as to back out of his agreement, if only for the possibility of a repeat of the sumptuous feast.

“It’s sad that Mister Boggins won’t be joining us,” Kíli murmured, proving that his thoughts often aligned with Fíli’s without the need for actual conversation. “I liked his food.”

“We’re probably better off without him, Kee,” Fíli whispered. “If we can’t trust his word now, who’s to say he won’t simply disappear on us? Like Dwalin said, ‘the Wilds are no place for gentle folk’.”

“I expected him to be different from the Hobbits we’ve seen riding through the Shire,” Kíli replied.

“Me, too, Kee. He doesn’t look like much of a burglar. I don’t think he even noticed that Nori was nicking his spoons and replacing them in odd places,” Fíli sighed. The Thief had been looking forward to meeting this ‘Hobbit Burglar’ that Tharkûn had promised Uncle, and Fíli was not the only one who was disappointed with what they found when they reached Bag-End.

“Do you think we’ll be unlucky if he stays here? We could tie him up in a sack and bring him for luck. He doesn’t weigh much, we could trade off carrying him.” Fíli couldn’t help but chuckle. Trust Kíli to come up with a plan involving kidnapping.

“I think we’d earn more bad luck that way,” he mused, “after all, we’d still be only thirteen Companions. The only difference would be an unwilling Hobbit in a sack, complaining all the way about his,” Fíli had to think about the word, “doilies.”

“I still don’t know what those holey things were for. They wouldn’t make good dishcloths, no matter what Bofur says,” Kíli decided. “It’s still too bad about Mister Boggins. Tharkûn said he’d be helpful, he must have had a reason.”

“‘Wizard’s Whim’,” Fíli quoted, making Kíli giggle with his impression of Uncle Thorin’s exasperated voice. “Get some sleep, Kee, we’ve got an early start tomorrow. Uncle Thorin said first light.” Kíli nodded, subsiding into silence. One of his hands snaked its way into Fíli’s bedroll, squeezing his own. The two brothers fell asleep soon after.


	3. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli in (love) lust.

The auburn hair framing a pretty face, a splash of freckles above the nose that turned up slightly at the tip, the laughing mouth and those eyes that were a peculiar dark green with golden flecks when she smiled at him. Fíli had plenty of reasons to like the newest visitor to Erebor, even if she didn’t seem aware of his gaze. King Ranvé of the Orocarni had arrived to see the progress of rebuilding Erebor, and among the King’s entourage was her youngest daughter, and _she_ was the one who’d caught Fíli’s eye. She was a few years younger than him, and completely enamoured with Erebor’s Great Forges, spending her time pestering the Master Smiths with unexpectedly intelligent questions. Fíli found himself tongue-tied whenever she spoke to him. He tied to tell himself that he was the Heir of the Thorin Oakenshield, he was Fíli One-Eye, he was a veteran of the Battle of Five Armies, _and_ a bloody Lord Companion to boot, to no avail. He had faced down Orcs and Wargs and even haughty Men and Elves during the Quest for Erebor and still he could not muster enough presence of mind to say anything more complicated than ‘Good evening, Princess. Try the roast, it’s delicious’. Kíli was absolutely no help. Happy in love with his One, the younger Prince had little time for Fíli’s woes, and usually seemed to vanish each time Fíli could have used his presence for moral support as he fumbled his way through a few words with the Princess before he gave up, fleeing her presence as he cursed himself for a coward in every way. And, of course, his ruthless Amad had decided that _Fíli_ was the perfect dwarf to show the visiting Princess around Erebor.

Fíli spent his days in painful silence, punctuated by a bewildered Princess trying to start conversations he never managed to answer with much more than grunts as he pointed out places within the Halls.

 

His nights were equally plagued by her presence. She used some sort of citrusy hair oil, and he had been pathetic enough to ask Nori to procure a sample, pretending that he could bury his face in those curls when he smelled the small vial. His dreams were filled with resplendent visions of her, sometimes in his bed, though most often he dreamed that _he_ was one of the smiths with whom she spoke so freely. He tried to tell himself he could be, he was a deft hand in the forge, after all, a maker of fine blades, even if he said so himself.

The third night was the worst so far, though Fíli rather expected his desirous dreams to increase as the days of the diplomatic visit passed. He had stared at her covertly all night, throughout the feasting and the dancing, and he had watched her fly across the floor in rows and reels as the songs demanded, wishing that he trusted his own feet enough to join her but knowing that he’d end up falling on his face; just like he had on the first night of her presence. Instead, he had watched her as she danced with one nobledwarf after the other, scowling blackly at whomever found himself her partner for the dance. Until she stepped up with the last one. He couldn’t keep the infatuation off his face then, and had to excuse himself from the far too observant eyes of his Amad and Uncle Thorin. The Princess had not noticed, Fíli knew, speaking in a low voice with her short partner. The dwarfling – looked to be no more than 12, in Fíli’s unbiased opinion – had claimed all her attention as he tried to lead her through the intricate steps and Fíli tried to tell himself that he was better than mentally cursing a 12-year-old. He managed, barely, and ended up escaping before he could make a liar of himself. And that led him nicely to his current predicament, which was the fact that he had been dreaming about the Princess far too often for the past three nights. He had watched her lying on the furs that covered his bed, challenging him to remove her dress. He had seen her stand on the ramparts and watch the light of dawn set the world afire. He had felt an almost visceral pleasure in feeding her tasty morsels from his own plate, suffused with pride that she would be nourished by meat he had brought her, hunted and killed with his own hands. He had watched her asleep, the glow of embers trapped in her hair as she smiled in dreams. He had felt her arms wrap around him, had heard her sighs and whispers and dreamed of the way she might scream out his name with her pleasure.

Fíli had accepted that he wanted her, badly. He had also accepted that he would probably never manage to speak anything coherent in her presence, which relegated her safely to the realm of dreams where he was suave and capable in ways he was decidedly not when awake.

This latest dream, he struggled to accept having. It had started quite simply, she’d come up behind him and rubbed his shoulders, working out the kinks of a long day as they got ready for bed. So far, so good. Fíli could deal with that part, it might even be quite nice; it certainly would have if she had stuck to his expected script and joined him naked between the blankets. The latter part had happened. He had been in bed, his eyes already falling shut, as he felt the blankets move and smelled her citrusy head coming to rest on his shoulder. Nuzzling against the crown of her head, he had moved slightly towards her, and _that_ was the moment the script derailed, the moment Fíli realised that he was in trouble. Against his side, he could feel something unexpected. She spoke, drowsy and gentle.

Fíli woke up, breathing hard and panicked.

In his head, the words echoed.

“Your son is restless, amrâlimê.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually really liked this snippet. Fíli tends to come across as suave, but I rather feel that he'd be pretty bumbling if his heart was actually in it.


	4. Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- The first time Fili “proves himself” to Thorin  
> \- Break Fili’s heart (without any deaths)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second prompt didn't quite fit and I might write another one for that later...
> 
> Kíli is ~17 in this.

Thorin was late coming back to Ered Luin for winter this year, he knew, as he trudged the by now familiar paths that would eventually lead him to their family’s home. Hearing Dwalin’s familiar rumble of command, he made a detour to watch his One training the younger warriors. Among their number he found the expected sight of Fíli’s golden hair close to Kíli’s dark locks, a fierce look of concentration on both their faces. Thorin smiled slightly, slipping behind a convenient building so he could watch the practise unnoticed.

 

“He’s no Dwarf. He’s probably half elf!” At first, Thorin thought he had heard wrong; the young voice that spoke the words must surely be jesting. As he shook off his shock, preparing to step forth and bring whatever wrath he could to bear on behalf of whatever unfortunate youngling had been so designated, he heard another voice, one he knew well, one of those he thought of every time some snide comment from Men would have made him lose his temper.

“He’s more Dwarf than you’ll ever be, Vani!” Fíli yelled.

“pfft!” Vani scoffed. “He uses a bow.” Apparently feeling like that was enough to condemn anyone, Vani continued, jeering a spiteful chorus of “Elf-son! Elf-son!”

This time, Thorin’s feet obeyed him, though he almost wished he hadn’t. The young ones had obviously been dismissed for the day, Dwalin was nowhere in sight and most of the trainees had dispersed, leaving Fíli facing off against someone Thorin assumed to be Vani and a couple of his friends who looked like they were rapidly regretting hanging back after class. The part that truly broke Thorin’s heart, however, was the fact that the victim of the taunts was his darkhaired nephew, who was standing behind Fíli’s protective stance, holding himself in a way that made Thorin acutely aware that he had taken the insults to heart.

The punch was masterful. Thorin himself had taught Fíli that move, he thought, watching with unveiled pride as his oldest nephew put the miscreant on his arse with a snarl. “He’s my _brother_ ,” Fíli hissed, staring down at the flailing dwarf who was trying to regain his breath.

“What’s going on here?” Thorin asked, deceptively mildly. Vani blanched.

“N-Nothing, Thorin Uzbad,” he whispered, staring up at Thorin’s imposing bulk.

“Well, then,” Thorin nodded. “You had best run along home to your adad, Vani, son of Vari.”

“Yes, Uzbad.” Vani whimpered, before scarpering with a swiftness that startled his two friends, who ran off too at Thorin’s miniscule nod of permission.

“Fíli, would you take my pack home, I’d like a word with young Kíli,” Thorin asked, though none of them missed the fact that it was a direct order from the King, not a question. Fíli just nodded, looking apprehensive. Picking up Thorin’s discarded baggage, he fled smartly.

“W-Welcome home, Uncle,” Kíli whispered, and tried to hide the sniffle in his voice.

“Thank you, Kíli,” Thorin smiled, wrapping an arm around the distraught young dwarf. “Now, what was this all about, **mahdith **[1]****?” Pulling him into his arms, Thorin allowed Kíli to hide his face against his chest as the whole sorry tale came pouring out. Struggling to contain his temper, Thorin almost shook with fury by the end.

 

They stood in silence for a long time, Kíli soaking up the offered reassurance and Thorin trying to rein in his first impulse to rage at Vani and his ilk, punish them with all the wrath he could muster.

“Listen to me, Kíli, son of Víli and Dís, Anvil-heir of Durin’s Line,” Thorin said quietly, pulling Kíli away so he could look into the dwarfling’s hazel eyes. “You are a dwarf, born of a Dwarf and sired by a Dwarf. Do you understand me?” Kíli nodded.

“Does that mean I shouldn’t like the bow?” Kíli asked, biting his lip. Thorin shook his head.

“My brother was an archer, like you. Amad is a deft hand with a bow too, and even managed to teach me even if I favoured the sword. There’s no weapon a dwarf cannot choose, Kíli. Elves fight with swords, too, and so do Orcs, even if their blades are hardly worthy of the name. A weapon is just a weapon, Kíli, and your bow will help you protect your brother as Frerin’s helped him protect me.” Cupping Kíli’s face in his work-roughened palm, Thorin brought him in close, pressing his forehead against the young dwarf’s in their ancient blessing of kin. “I’ll hear no more of this talk of you not being a whole Dwarf, mahdith. It’s an insult to you, to your Amad, and to your Adad in the Halls. It’s even an insult to myself and Dwalin, to claim we could not protect your Amad,” he huffed, making Kíli smile. Even if it was a bit watery, Thorin still counted it a smile. “Now, shall we go see what Frís has got on the stove?”

 

“Fíli. A word,” Thorin said, later in the evening. The golden-haired lad looked up at him with an expression that was at once contrite and defiant. It was almost enough to make Thorin laugh, but he kept up his stern face. None of them had told Dís what had happened, and Thorin wanted to get the necessary conversation with Fíli over with before he unleashed his sister’s tears.

“Yes, Uncle,” Fíli said, getting to his feet and joining Thorin in his study. It wasn’t so much a study as it was where the paperwork that came with running the settlement was kept, but the door was closed behind him nonetheless.

“What do you have to say?” Thorin asked, keeping his tone mild.

“He deserved worse!” Fíli spat. “Calling Kíli names and talking about Amad as if she would _ever…_!” he ranted. “It’s not the first time, Uncle, and I’m not… I’m not always there to stop them.” The admission pained him, Thorin could see.

“Come here, Fíli,” he asked, holding out his hand. Fíli went, warily. Thorin had to restrain himself not to laugh at the lad’s confused face when Thorin pulled him into a hard hug. “Well done, Fíli.”

 

 

[1] Blessing who is young


	5. The Fake Pond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- What’s the backstory with the Rivendell fountain frolicking and skinny-dipping?

Rivendell was fascinating, even if Fíli had to agree with Uncle when he claimed that the Elves who lived here were haughty. It was clear that their presence was tolerated, though hardly welcome, and Fíli felt slighted. Thus, he didn’t need much convincing on the morning Kíli came to him, wearing a grin that Fíli had long since classified as Kíli’s ‘innocence when he was actually nothing but mischief in a Dwarf’s body’-grin. The grin had presaged some of their most amusing pranks growing up – and some of Dís’ sternest lectures, admittedly – and Fíli found himself listening intently when Kíli described the huge ‘fake pond’ he had discovered, a massive water sprouting statue in the middle.

“It’s called a fountain, Kíli,” Dori said absentmindedly, but the tailor was busy keeping an eye on Ori and paid no attention to the way Kíli’s eyes were alight with mischief. Nori, however, did notice, sauntering by and remarking casually in Dori’s direction:

“It’d be so nice with a good bath, don’t you think, Dori?” Distractedly, Dori just nodded at the Thief. Nori’s foxy grin at the two young Princes convinced them to follow his lead and in short order they had arrived at Kíli’s newfound fountain.

It was an impressive structure, Fíli had to admit, and another time he might have been interested in the engineering that caused the water to spring from the statue, but right now he was warm, a bit peeved at their hosts, and conveniently without parental supervision.

The water was cool but refreshing, and soon their shrieks and laughs had brought the rest of the Company running. Between dunking Kíli under the water and trying to avoid his retaliation, Fíli lost sight of Uncle Thorin’s face, but he thought he’d seen a smile in those blue eyes, just for a moment.


	6. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli's earliest memory.
> 
> This one contains OC's from my Dwelf-'Verse.

Fíli’s earliest memory was pulling the long braid on his adad’s chin. He knew it was Víli’s because it was the same golden honey colour as his own. It was one of the only things he actually remembered about his adad. He thought Dís might have been laughing in the background, but he mostly remembered the colour of the golden hair and the mossy hazel-green of Víli’s eyes smiling at him. His second-earliest memory involved Amadel handing him a small pebble and naming it Kíli. Fíli had complained at first, annoyed that the name was too similar to his own, but later that similarity became one of his favourite things about the new pebble. He remembered sitting by the crib for long stretches of time, trying to teach his new brother to say Fíli, completely ignoring Uncle Thorin telling him that Kíli was too young to do much by way of speech. He had wailing down pat; Fíli didn’t want to encourage any development in _that_ area, which had made Amad smile for the first time in a long time when he told her that during one of his brief visits in the first months after the pebble came.

One of his best memories from those early days was the day Amad got out of bed, even though Uncle Thorin told him she wasn’t allowed to pick Fíli up or let him swing from her arm yet. Instead, Uncle Dwalin had volunteered as Fíli’s climbing post, lifting him up and tossing him into the air, making Fíli forget that Amad wasn’t allowed to play. It was better than good, and not just because Dwalin was the best at reaching the cookie jar, but as he was hanging upside-down from Dwalin’s arm, while Uncle Thorin tickled him, Fíli _knew_ that Amad would be all better now, watching her smile at them.

 

 

Staring at the small body of his own son, sleeping peacefully in his crib, Fíli wondered what little Refli’s first memory would be. Would it be the colour of Fíli’s beard, or maybe his Amad’s auburn curls? Maybe it’d be that look in Uncle Thorin’s eyes when he tried to pretend that he wasn’t a great big cooing puddle of love whenever Ranka handed the pebble to the stern King. That one would remain one of Fíli’s favourites, for years to come, particularly the first meeting of the Dwarf who had been his father in many ways and the dwarf who was his son. Dís had been bawling her eyes out, buried in Dwalin’s chest as Kíli patted her back helplessly, his own smile wider than his face, but Thorin had been silent for a long time before he looked up to catch Fíli staring at him. Fíli couldn’t remember ever seeing Uncle Thorin look like that, but, of course, he hardly remembered what Thorin had looked like after his own or Kíli’s births, so he had little basis for comparison. Curving his palm carefully around the tiny skull, Fíli stroked the russet hair of his son with a smile. Whatever Refli ended up remembering from his earliest years, Fíli knew that it would be a good memory, a memory of feeling safe and loved.

“What are you doing?” Ranka kissed his cheek in greeting, and Fíli wrapped his arm around her warm body. Pulling her close against his chest, he pressed a kiss to the marriage braid he had put in her hair.

“Thinking about my Adad,” he admitted. “Even though I only remember a few things…”

“You’re not going to leave your son before time, beloved,” Ranka replied, somehow seeing straight to the heart of him, honing in on the thought he hadn’t dared to voice even to his own mind. “I command it.” Fíli chuckled.

“Commanding the Crown Prince of Erebor, love?” he asked, kissing her temple.

“Pfft. You’ve only been the Crown Prince for twenty years.” Ranka teased, “Whereas I was raised a Princess from birth. Clearly I am more experienced in commanding recalcitrant dwarrow.”

“I think that should be tested,” Fíli murmured into her hair.

“Well,” Ranka pretended to consider her approach, turning in his arms and pressing a kiss against the underside of his jaw, “perhaps I will prove it to you, if we can tear ourselves away from our sleeping pebble,” she whispered, her voice low and husky. Fíli didn’t need to be told twice, picking up her stout form at once and claiming her lips in a kiss that made her laugh against his mouth as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Pulling back slightly, Ranka smiled cheekily. “See? It clearly worked.” Fíli laughed, kissing her again as he continued towards their bedroom.


	7. Memento

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a prompt for the origin of the moustache braids, and I recently came across this picture   
> [Víli & Fíli](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/i-wish-i-had-had-time-to-draw-more-dwarves-though) which gave me this idea.

_Dís’ sure brush-strokes had captured Víli’s likeness in many situations even before her favourite subject perished in the mines. When she woke from the greying state of numbness that had enveloped her since the news of Víli’s death, Dís was thankful for the many sketches she had made. It had been Dwalin – far more emotionally insightful than most gave him credit for – who had asked her if she would object to displaying at least a few of the drawings around the house. At first, Dís had objected vehemently, having no wish to be reminded of her dead One every time she turned a corner. Dwalin’s reply had simultaneously broken her heart and made it feel whole and full to bursting._

_“Dís,” he had said, taking her hand in his warm one and squeezing it lightly. “Your son is too young to remember much of Víli, and this little one,” he pressed his fingers gently against the swelling bump under her tunic, which pushed back, making both of them stare in awed wonder at the first sign of the pebble’s rambunctious spirit. “This little one won’t ever know his Adad, unless we show him everything we loved about Víli, everything that made him your One and our brother. We owe it to Víli and to the pebbles to ensure that they do not forget that side of their family.” He paused, and she could see, even through her own fog, how much his next words pained him. “I wish… I wish we had more pictures of Amad. Some days I don’t think I remember the precise way she smiled.”_

_“I don’t know if I can, Dwalin,” Dís had replied hoarsely. “I still expect him to come home, whistling some new tune of Bofur’s and tickling my cheek with his ridiculous moustache.” Dwalin had laughed, and suddenly the world around her seemed less grey; the spectre of a dwarf loved in the room with them._

_“You see? We can’t let them forget things like that. Remember the time he braided it into his eyebrows because young Nori dared him?” Dwalin smirked, and he was right, Dís thought, as the memory made her laugh more than she had thought herself still capable of._

Coming out of her daze, Dís found herself staring at one of the many sketches that hung around the place. This one showed Víli holding a sleeping Fíli, whose hand was securely wrapped around the braid on his chin, as his Adad tickled his cheek with the long unbraided strands of his moustache. Tracing the blonde strands with a finger, Dís felt happy that she had taken Dwalin’s advice so long ago.

 

 

“Amad! Amad!” Fíli ran into the room, jumping up to sit beside her. Dís automatically wrapped her strong arm around the small lad who had only recently learned to run properly and now spent most of his day darting from one end of the house to the other.

“What is it, barzith?”

“Amadel says I’m going to grow a beard like Adad’s!” The little boy confided, in a conspiratorial tone that made his amad laugh.

“Aye, perhaps you will, barzith,” Dís smiled, picturing it in her mind as she bussed his as-yet hairless cheek. She could imagine the proud smile Víli would have worn on the day his golden son sprouted his first hair clearly. “I hope you’ll wear it in a less ridiculous way, however,” she added, mock-sternly, “no braiding your moustache into your eyesbrows!” Fíli gaped up at her, and Dís suddenly wished that she had captured that episode on paper, even if it was only to show Fíli that his Adad really _had_ done such a daft thing.

“Adad did that?” Fíli asked, his eyes wide as he tried to make his own long locks follow the shape of his face from his lips to his eyebrows. Dís couldn’t help her laughter at the sight. Fíli mostly resembled a small bundle of straw, the hair entirely obscuring his eyes.

“Aye, he did, barzith,” she smiled, “and I’m sure you _will_ have a beard to rival his one day, but I better not catch you braiding your moustache in such silly ways.”

“I promise, Amad,” Fíli swore solemnly, his earnest expression making Dís chuckle again. “I’ll have the best moustache braids, you’ll see,” he said, a small yawn punctuating the sentence. Dís smiled, kissing his forehead.

“I’m sure you will, barzith,” she murmured, stroking Fíli’s golden locks as her son fell asleep in her arms. “I’m sure you will.”


	8. Crafts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I sorta had an idea about Dwarf-style Career-Day being a thing... so this is for the prompt "What did Fíli want to be when he grew up?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word for grandmother is technically Sigin'Amad or S'amad... but Fíli and Kíli refer to Frís as Amadel because when he was smaller, Thorin referred to her as the mother for their whole people (because she was the Queen) and Fíli decided that made her the mother of all mothers.

“Amadel, c’mon!” Fíli was so excited he was practically bouncing. Frís gave him an indulgent smile as she settled her winter cloak on her shoulders. The Dowager Queen – Thorin might stubbornly refuse to believe that Thraín had perished during his ill-advised trip to Erebor 25 years prior, but Frís knew better – slowly made her way across the icy cobbles that lined the road past their home. Little Fíli, only just turned seven, was darting hither and yon, bringing with him a vibrant memory of her own golden lad doing just the same, though Frerin had never set foot in Ered Luin. Shaking off her melancholy, Frís got a grip on the small hand, navigating her way down the street. Their first port of call was the tailoring shop run by Master Dori.

 

“Good morning, my Lady,” Dori said, when they entered the small store.

“Good morning, Master Dori,” Frís smiled. She always felt amused when speaking with Dori, who had never lost the Ereborian accent, even though he had been little older than Fíli was now when the dragon came. Following the tailor into the small backroom, Frís wondered if her grandson would be drawn to the large loom, if his Craft would mirror her own Amad’s. Somehow, she didn’t think so; the boy had never wanted to play with her own threads and yarns after all, always pestering his Uncles for stories about the forges and the things they made. It did not mean this was a ritual they could skip, and so she watched as Master Dori explained the workings of the loom and how thread became fabric that eventually became clothes. Fíli was listening wide-eyed, but that was simple dwarfling curiosity, not the genuine spark that signified finding his true Craft.

After bidding Master Dori a polite farewell, and promising to pick up her order of black lace next week, Frís carefully steered Fíli, who was relating everything that had happened to him so far as though Frís had not been present. Tousling his hair with a smile, Frís opened the door to Balin’s scrivener shop. Young Ori, the only dwarf occupying the front room, looked up from his manuscript, blanched at the sight of the Queen and then blushed a vivid red as he shyly stuttered his way through a greeting. Frís almost wanted to laugh at the expression of abject relief that crossed his face when Balin’s head popped through the door of his own workroom. Fíli waved, scampering over to his pseudo-uncle with a loud cry of ‘Balin!’.

“Well, Fíli-lad, let’s see what you can do with inks and paper, aye?” Balin said, nodding like a kindly grandfather; a sight that made Frís wish she had the skill to draw it, if only for the look on Dwalin and Thorin’s faces when she showed them.

Fíli – although he had learned his letters under Balin’s careful tutelage – had no skill to speak of when it came to scrivening. He was a dab hand at drawing, Frís knew, when he bothered, another similarity to her own Frerin that made her feel as though her child had not left the world entirely, even if the skill might as well have passed down from Dís. It was clear, however, that though Fíli might make a decent artist or illustrator, he would not be taking an apprenticeship for scrivening. Laughing under her breath, Frís herded her little terror out of the shop, leaving Balin to wonder how to remove the splotches of ink that decorated his beard after Fíli managed to snap a pen in half.

The less said about their visit to the pottery the better, Frís felt, debating the odds of keeping _that_ particular disaster a secret from her children. Probably not likely to happen, she thought, sure that gossip was already flying through the air behind her.

There was no reason to visit Master Singer Melka, which was just as well, Frís thought, preferring to avoid the shrew whenever possible.

Entering young Óin’s shop, Fíli wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell of herbs and other things that eventually became medicine.

“Amadel, can we go?” he whispered, tugging at her dress. “Is scary here.” Frís bent, giving him a reassuring hug.

“Of course, raklûn, but we should say hello to your cousin, don’t you think?” Fíli appeared thoughtful for a minute, but then he rallied his courage, stepping into the apothecary and waving at Óin whose current patient was busy cooing over Fíli’s polite manners.

“No worries, Fíli,” Óin said, kneeling down to speak at Fíli’s height. “It does smell a bit icky in here at times, I know. As long as you come back if you get hurt, you don’t have to stay today, aye?” Satisfied with that deal, Fíli held out his small fist and they shook on it.

“Let’s go then, raklûn,” Frís said, turning to open the door once more. “We’ve time to visit the leatherworkers before we go home to eat midday meal.”

“Is Kíli going to be asleep?” Fíli asked, skipping along beside her.

“If we hurry, you can sit with him before his afternoon nap.” Frís promised.

The trip to the leatherworkers was predictably short, though Frís was pleased that Master Vari had finished the new fur hood she would gift Dís for Yule. Parcel in hand, and one small dwarfling sworn to silence – Fíli felt properly grown up being trusted to keep such a secret, walking beside her for a time in a manner copied straight from Thorin until his natural exuberance overcame him – Frís set course for home. Dís would be with lunch, and hopefully little Kíli would be feeling better than he had this morning. Dís had meant to take Fíli for his Craft-Search, but the fussy pebble had made her reluctant to leave, which was why Frís had taken over the task, enjoying spending the time with her small grandson.

 

After lunch and a nap, Frís once more donned her winter-gear, her fox-fur stole and rabbit-fur lined gloves keeping away the distinct chill in the air. Fíli, too, had been decked out in knitted mittens and a scarf that wound several times around his neck, his sea-green eyes sparkling up at her.

They were heading for Master Katla’s forge, where Uncle Thorin would also be found. Truth be told, Frís expected that visit to be the one that would reveal Fíli’s Craft-Spark, and it was clear from his excitement that Fíli thought so too.

The forge was hot, of course, and Frís quickly divested her almost vibrating grandson of his extra layers. Thorin caught the lad up in his arms with a fond laugh, showing off his current project, a pot that needed mending. Letting Fíli hold the hammer, steadying it with a hand when it proved too heavy for the dwarfling, Thorin showed him how to strike the metal precisely. Frís smiled, reminded of watching the exact same scene unfold between her Adad and young Thorin. She didn’t notice the small tear that made its way into her beard as she allowed her memory to transport her back home, seeing again the excited look on her Adad’s dear face as he showed her son everything, Thorin watching in wide-eyed wonder, as though Hanar was pure magic. The grief struck her suddenly, wishing that her parents could have seen their great-grandson discover his Craft.

“Amad?” Thorin’s worry washed over Frís, breaking the spell of remembrance. “Are you well?” he asked, guiding her to sit on the lone stool in the forge. Frís nodded decisively, wiping away her tear.

“No be sad, Amadel,” Fíli mumbled, hiding his face against her midriff. Frís patted his hair.

“I’m not sad, raklûn,” she promised, “I was just thinking of my adad showing your Uncle around his forge.”

“I wants ter make iron things!” Fíli exclaimed, his upset forgotten in the face of his excitement. “I’ma make knives, Amadel, and a new pan so you can make double honey cakes!” Frís couldn’t hold back her laughter, swiftly joined by Thorin’s rumbling chuckle from his position by the anvil. He had picked up his hammer once more, giving the pot a few more hits before returning it to the fire.

“Well, you heard the Prince of Durin’s Line, Amad,” he laughed. “Honey-cakes and knives. At least he has aspirations of grandeur.” Fíli didn’t really understand why they were laughing, but he joined anyway, happy to have banished the sad moment.

 

Some years later, Fíli realised that while he would eventually become a Master Weaponsmith, he also fancied working with soft and malleable silver, which led Frís to teaching him one day a week in the Craft that had become her own after the birth of her first pebble.


	9. The Devil is in the Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OR, why Fíli was banned from working in Dís' kitchen beyond clean-up duties, much like his Uncle.
> 
> \- Fili and Kili try to do something special for Dís.

_It was ultimately Balin’s fault_ , Fíli thought.

Standing in the epicentre of destruction, he followed the chain of events in his head, and it was definitely Balin’s fault.

 

_Earlier that week…_

“Amad says there’s a celebration of Amads in her Amad’s old Mountain,” Gimli proclaimed, during their break from Balin’s lesson on the Orocarni, which Fíli had found somewhat interesting, and Kíli had mostly slept through. Gimli had his lessons with Balin’s younger apprentice, Ori, learning his letters, but he joined his cousins for break time and caught the tail end of Kíli’s moaning about the customs of the Orocarni.

“A celebration of Amads?” Kíli asked, interrupted in his rant; a habit clearly passed down from _Thorin’s_ side of the family, though Fíli didn’t bother to listen to more than half of it. He had surmised Kíli’s current frustrations regarded their tutor’s long monologue about the importance of astronomy – specifically the Moon – in Orocarni customs in combination with Balin’s insistence that Princes ought to remember these kinds of fact for future diplomatic relations. Fíli was not quite convinced that held true for Princes in Exile in Ered Luin; the only Orocarnul Dwarf he knew was Irak’amad Vár, and she was just the daughter of an Orocarni Dwarf who’d ran off to marry a miner from Ered Luin. Vár’s amad had never cared to observe any of her family’s customs, however, as far as Fíli knew, but when he had told Balin that piece of information, the Uzugbad had made him stand in the corner for five minutes for cheek. Sometimes, Balin was _mean_.

“It’s called Nurt Amadu,” Gimli replied, the smugness of knowing something his older – and somewhat idolized, Fíli had to admit – cousins did not clear in his voice and his tiny face shiny with poorly hidden glee. Fíli – considering himself the wiser, older cousin – pretended to ignore the smugness, though Kíli scowled. Fíli elbowed him swiftly, making Kíli yelp and shift the target of his glare. Wee ‘Gimmers’ – Fíli had called him that as a pebble and the name had stuck as an inside joke between the brothers – looked a little perturbed, but when Fíli smiled at him, he continued bravely in the face of his other cousin’s displeasure. “Amad says you’re supposed to do nice things for your Amad and Irak’amad and Sigin’amad on Nurt Amadu to show them that you ‘preciate all the things they do for you on other days. She says it should be a thing here, then she wouldn’t have to cook for a full day… but I don’t really want it to, because Adad makes all weird food.” Gimli added the last as an afterthought, though Fíli silently had to agree. Having been subjected to Glóin’s cooking before – rock cakes were not actually meant to be made of rocks, he was sure – Fíli then spent several minutes on horrified imagining of the situation in their own home if neither Amad nor Amadel were allowed to do the cooking… he hoped Dwalin would be home if this celebration ever happened in Ered Luin. Uncle Thorin _had_ managed to burn water. Amad said so, the last time she shooed him out of the kitchen, and Fíli didn’t doubt Dís’ truthfulness on the matter; Dwalin had simply laughed his booming laugh and pulled Thorin’s temple braid, which made Uncle Thorin scowl at him and wonder why Dwalin wasn’t leaping at the chance to defend his Prince’s honour. Dwalin had laughed harder at that, though Fíli hadn’t heard whatever he replied that had made Uncle Thorin look all funny and storm outside.

“We should do that!” Kíli exclaimed, his earlier annoyance forgotten in its entirety. Fíli was startled out of considering whether Thorin was worse than Glóin at cooking, and felt a foreboding sense of trepidation at the sight of Kíli’s bright smile.

“Do what?” he asked, having missed his cousins’ actual conversation in full being lost in increasingly terrifying visions of Thorin and Glóin challenging each other to baking and cooking competitions.

“Nurt Amadu, Fee, weren’t you listening?” Kíli bounced on the balls of his feet. Fíli knew it was only a matter of time before he’d begin poking his arm too and sighed. “C’mon, let’s ask Balin! I think it’s more fun than whatever moon-related feast he was going to be going on about next!” dashing off – Kíli never did walk if he could do anything but – the younger Prince of Durin’s Line left his older brother shaking his head with an indulgent smile on his face and his tiny cousin waving a somewhat ink-stained fist after him. Fíli kindly steered the younger dwarfling back to his lesson, before running off after Kíli’s disappearing dark locks himself.

 

“Yes, Kíli, Nurt Amadu _is_ indeed an Orocarni celebration of Amads,” Balin was saying when Fíli re-entered the study where he lectured them about the long history of their race – with emphasis on Durin’s Line, as was proper, of course, for the Heirs of Thorin Oakenshield, Prince of Erebor. “However, it has never been formally recognized by the other six Clans, and is exclusively a Blacklock celebration in the Orocarni as a whole as far as I know.”

“That’s daft,” Kíli rebuffed Balin’s attempt – it was a poor effort in Fíli’s opinion, and Balin should have known better – at dissuading him, “Longbeards and Firebeards and all the other Clans _also_ have Amads. We should all be doing nice things for them!” Fíli couldn’t argue with that point, and neither – it seemed – could Balin, who gave Kíli one of those sighs that meant he would argue but couldn’t see the point and thus he’d give in and maybe complain to Uncle later. Fíli winced at the thought, but Kíli breezed right past Balin’s unvoiced admonition, probably not even noticing it, to be fair. “Gimmers said we should cook instead of Amad, but should we also do other things?” Again, Balin sighed. Fíli added his own gaze to the persuasive power of Kíli’s hazel eyes – which always seemed to work better than Fíli’s at getting him out of trouble, to the elder brother’s constant vexation. Balin crumpled before the unstoppable onslaught.

“The celebration involves a number of things, Kíli.” Balin listed the items on his fingers, “Firstly, you should wake your Amad with a meal prepared from all her favourites. Then, you are supposed to give her a small card, perhaps decorated, with a poem or short note about how much she means to you. In some Blacklock families, the dwarflings will do all the chores usually done around the house by their Amad, and then you should cook dinner for the family.” Kíli nodded along with the list, and Fíli felt slightly uplifted. He was decent at drawing and more than passable at fancy letters, while Kíli had already learned how to make bread. They could clearly do the first parts of the day, with little trouble, even if doing chores was duller than sparring with Fat Hargo, who usually tripped over his own feet due to his large belly and cried when he got bruised. Fíli had often wondered why Hargo’s Adad paid for him to remain in Dwalin’s class, the lad clearly did not wish to learn. On the other hand, Fat Hargo was a brilliant baker, everyone thought so, and that gave Fíli an _Idea_. Normally, _Ideas_ were Kíli’s specialty, but sometimes, Fíli’s brilliant mind came up with something so jaw-droppingly perfect that he had to implement it right away. With Hargo’s help, they could make Amad’s favourite cake! Cinnamon swirly cake! Fíli could almost taste the sweetness.

 

_Earlier that day…_

“The bread is done!” Kíli said, gravely, making Fíli struggle to keep his composure. Uncle Thorin had sounded just like that during the last council meeting when the nobles once more tried to make him declare Sigin’adad Thraín dead and officially accept the mantle of King. They tied that once every three years or so, it seemed, but Uncle Thorin didn’t budge. Fíli didn’t know whether it was foolish or brave, considering Thorin was the only one who believed Thraín would return to the Folk of Durin. “Now we wait for it to cool a little.”

Raising his recently finished knife – he had used the occasion as an excuse to finish his newest creation with a partially serrated edge – Fíli cut into the still-warm loaf, a couple of thick slices landing on the plate Kíli had artistically drizzled with orange jam. A mug of weak cider and a cup of tea finished the tray; they had drawn lots to determine the privilege of serving, and Fíli had won ‘Afternoon Cake’, so Kíli picked up the tray carefully, walking determinedly out of the kitchen.

 

Dís did a credible imitation of waking up when Kíli walked into her bedroom with his carefully balancing tray. Kíli’s attention was on his balancing act, trying to make sure the mugs didn’t spill, but Fíli noticed the hastily concealed paper she had been reading before he opened the door.

“What’s all this, lads?” Dís asked, far too alert for having just woken up in Fíli’s opinion.

“Happy Nurt Amadu!” they chorused, making her laugh. Kíli put the tray down with a flourish.

“It’s a Blacklock thing,” Fíli explained. Dís nodded. “Balin told us about it.”

“We’re supposed to do all your chores and cooking all day!” Kíli exclaimed. Dís chuckled, pulling him down to knock her forehead gently against his.

“Well, badgith[1], that sounds nice,” she smiled, making Kíli beam like a small sun.

 

_An hour earlier…_

“Hargo said to whisk it,” Fíli said stubbornly. Between his hands, a large bowl of eggs was failing at turning white and frothy like Hargo had shown them earlier that week, borrowing a space in his uncle Kjalarr’s foodhall-kitchen to teach the young princes how to make their Amad’s favourite cake. Kíli hadn’t paid much attention, though Fíli had believed himself more than capable of mixing together the ingredients at the end of their lesson. Kíli had spent the time entertaining the mining crews who ate in Kjalarr’s Foodhall and spreading the word about Nurt Amadu. While it had seemed like a good idea at the time – and made several greybeards call them adorable, which both Fíli and Kíli had later agreed never happened – now Fíli wished they had prioritized differently.

“Maybe you’re whisking it wrong,” Kíli suggested, looking at the yellow gloop dubiously. Fíli silently had to agree that he had certainly done _something_ wrong, but his pride wouldn’t let him admit as much in the face of Kíli’s earlier success with the bread. “Think we should ask Amadel?”

“No,” Fíli replied, though he really wished Frís would come through the kitchen doors and save them. “We’re supposed to do it ourselves, Balin said!”

Kíli conceded the point, nudging Fíli’s elbow companionably. “Maybe we should just add the flower and the cinnamon.”

“I still don’t know why we have to add a flower,” Fíli complained, staring at the small white one they’d found after three hours of scouring the surrounding mountain slopes.

“Cos it’s for a lady? Think Amad said the cake was invented by Men, lady-Men like flowers.” Kíli replied, but Fíli knew the confidence was faked; Kíli had no more idea about the necessity of the flower than he did. “I think Amadel usually pounds the cinnamon into powder first,” he added, just in time for Fíli to yank back the hand holding two pieces of fragrant rolled up bark.

“You do that, then, go find one of Uncle Thorin’s spare hammers.” Feeling better for re-establishing himself as the one in control of this venture, Fíli returned to his bowl. Hargo had given them some very finely milled white powder, and Fíli remembered him adding quite a lot of it. When he opened the bag, however, a cloud of white rose from the depths, giving him a clear view of what he would look like in 250 years. Fíli shuddered, trying to brush the whiteness off his clothes and into the bowl. Grabbing his spoon once more, he gave the gloop a vigorous stir.

“Found it!” Kíli exclaimed, holding Uncle Thorin’s largest hammer aloft in one hand. That turned out to be a miscalculation, when he slipped on some of the white stuff Fíli had covered the kitchen with and fell down with a yell. Shortly thereafter, he yelled once more, louder, as the massive hammer landed on his foot.

 

_The present:_

“What in Mahal’s name is going on here?!” Dís cried out, staring aghast at the scene that met her eyes when she walked into her kitchen. Fíli looked like he’d lost a brawl with Time itself, covered in flour, which did explain some of the state of her kitchen floor.

“We were..” Kíli began, but Dís held up a hand for silence. Turning on her foot, she left the kitchen. The brothers stared at each other for a long moment of silence. Fíli sighed.

“I think… we should probably clean this up,” he muttered, Kíli nodded.

 

“Thorin, you _have_ to come see this! _”_ Dís could hardly contain her laughter, pulling her brother away from the pile of paperwork he was attempting to get through. Thorin threw a final glance at the stack, but followed her with a shrug.

 

Entering the kitchen, the Prince and Princess of Durin’s Folk shared an incredulous look, before simultaneously bursting into laughter.

Fíli was staring at what ought to have been a nice cake, brown in colour and decorated with ribbons of white frosting. It _was_ brown, which was the best compliment Fíli could give the result of his labours. It was also burnt, harder than rock, lumpy, wonky, and part of it seemed to have exploded, which was the reason for the gloop slowly dripping from the hot stones of their oven. That description did not even begin to cover the rest of the kitchen, nor the two brothers, who were both streaked in white, making Kíli resemble a small badger, his dark hair turned grey when he ran flour covered fingers through the strands. Fíli was mostly covered in the stuff, looking like he had spent time in a very localized blizzard – the rest of the kitchen supported this theory, with flour dusting almost every horizontal surface. The laughter of the suddenly appearing parental figures did not make Fíli feel better about his current predicament.

“It’s all Balin’s fault!” Fíli blurted, panicking. Beside him, Kíli nodded vigorously.

“I think your Heir has inherited the cookery style common to the dwarrow of Durin’s Line,” Dís stage whispered at Thorin, who was startled into another involuntary chuckle as the two dwarflings stood frozen before them. Thorin scowled at his unrepentantly grinning sister, until the corners of his mouth began to turn up, becoming a fond smile. Just before Kíli’s large eyes would begin glistening, Dís pulled him into a one-armed hug, catching Fíli up in her embrace. Pressing a bristly kiss to each batter smudged cheek, she hugged her sons. “I appreciate that you tried to do something special for me, lads, it was kindly meant. I love you, my special wee lads,” she whispered, wiping a single tear from Kíli’s cheek when he sniffled. Fíli remained stoically expressionless, though he couldn’t stop himself relaxing into almost boneless relief when Thorin joined the hug, wrapping his thick arms around all of them, his hum a wordless tune of comfort sinking into their bones.

“We are not angry, lads,” he promised solemnly. “Though you _will_ be cleaning this mess up before Amadel returns!”

Fíli winced, feeling his Amad’s low chuckle reverberate through her chest and into his own. “Come on, my little kitchen-terrors,” she chuckled, “let’s get some water on. Kíli, go fetch a broom. Fíli, the cleaning rags. Thorin…” she looked up, smiling wryly at her scowling brother, “do see if you can get that… substance… off my ceiling.”

 

[1] Little dream (I totally headcanon that Dís would use terms of endearment a lot)


	10. The Line of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli has an extensive sword collection...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fíli's best pickup-line and the time it backfired...

Fíli wasn’t the best-looking dwarf in Ered Luin, but he didn’t let that get him down. The golden hair he’d inherited from Víli combined with the uncommon eye-colour he didn’t know how he’d ended up with – a combination green and Durin-blue that was uniquely his own – made him interesting enough to look at that most Dwarrow overlooked his slightly-too-narrow face. His charm – more muted than Kíli, but at times more effective too – and his ease with speaking to strangers often allowed him to ‘get to know’ new people.

“You used that line again,” Kíli said, as his greeting over breakfast. Fíli looked back quizzically, scooping porridge into his bowl.

“What line?” he asked, drizzling honey on top of the porridge.

“The ‘Want to see my sword collection?’-line,” Kíli replied cheekily, snatching Fíli’s spoon and dodging his return punch easily. “I wonder what will happen the day someone doesn’t realise it’s an innuendo…” Tossing the spoon into Fíli’s cup of milk, splashing a few drops onto his sleeve in the process, Kíli made himself scarce before Fíli could enact suitable revenge. Scowling, the Prince of Durin’s Folk returned his attention to his breakfast, banishing the last vestiges of his hangover from the night before.

 

“Want to see my sword collection?” As the words left his mouth, Fíli caught sight of Kíli’s face, caught between incredulity and awe. Forcing his eyes back to the youngest Princess of the Orocarni, Fíli wished he could eat his words, certain that his ears were flaming red. The line had just slipped out, familiarly tripping off his tongue without being stopped by the guard of his teeth and Fíli found himself begging for a sudden Orc-invasion or something that might get his head chopped off so he wouldn’t have to remember this moment forever. _It’s because she’s so pretty_ , Fíli thought, _how am I supposed not to want her when she’s that beautiful and lovely?_ Promising himself a firm punishment later – he’d challenge Dwalin to a no-holds-barred sparring match, sure to leave him with a goodly amount of bruising – Fíli swore to watch his words better in future. Princess Ranka smiled, her green eyes lighting up with excitement.

“Really? I heard you treated your blades like your pebbles, but I’d love to see your collection!” Behind her, Kíli’s expression was a study Fíli wished someone had caught on paper. Ranka, however, was nearly bouncing on her feet. “Which way to the armoury? Or do you keep your personal collection elsewhere? Do you have one of the curved blades of the Stonefists, or have you only gathered Longbeard-crafted straight swords?” she asked, and both brothers realised at the same time that Ranka believed Fíli had offered to show her his swords instead of his _sword_. Fíli’s relief was mixed with sadness, realising that he’d half-way hoped she’d understand that it was a line and either accept or deny him, putting him out of his misery one way or the other. Kíli, however, just broke down, laughing so hard Fíli almost feared that he’d burst something. Ori kindly pulled the unresisting archer away, and – not for the first time – Fíli thanked Mahal for the presence of the little scribe in his life.

“I keep my swords separate,” Fíli heard himself saying, “though I’m usually armed with quite a lot too.” In Erebor, he didn’t habitually wear half an armoury like he had done on the Quest, but he still carried around fourteen – strapped to various parts of his person or clothes. “Do the Stonefists have a special technique with curved blades? I think I’ve always thought only Elves used curved swords.” Orcrist was a perfect example, but it was also one of the first properly curving blades he’d seen, even though Thorin wielded it with grace belying the fact that _he’d_ probably never used a blade like it before they found the Troll Hoard.

“Oh,” Princess Ranka’s smile dimmed slightly, and Fíli thought he was going to die. This was the longest actual conversation he had managed with her since her arrival several days earlier and he felt almost desperate to keep the smile on her face and aimed in his direction. Suddenly, the light reappeared, “I wish I had thought to bring mine!” Ranka exclaimed, and Fíli wasn’t quite sure what happened, but suddenly he was holding her _hand_ – warm, a little callused, but also soft in a way that made his heart race faster – and she was looking at him expectantly.

“…” Fíli had clear forgotten what was going on.

“Where is this sword collection?” Ranka came to his rescue; Fíli wanted to kiss her.

“I keep some in the Royal Armoury, this way,” he managed to croak, pulling on her hand and – miracles of all miracles – she followed, her fingers lightly wrapped around his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... or did it?


	11. The Heir or the Air?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Fíli learns what an heir is.

Dwalin was walking through their small settlement, young Fíli scampering along beside him, his small fist firmly holding on to Dwalin’s much larger hand. Dwalin had picked up the lad from his half-day lessons with Balin, taking him home for lunch before returning to the training grounds and his afternoon class of new recruits. Fíli was talking a mile a minute about Balin’s lesson, an account of the settlement of the Iron Hills that Dwalin remembered as bone-dry boredom but which had apparently caught Fíli’s imagination. Dwalin smiled at the bouncing golden hair beside him; he rather thought Fíli’s version would have been far more interesting – if a lot less factual – than Balin’s. Of course, he admitted, Aunt Rádveig’s account had been entertaining, but Dwalin had often wondered if it wasn’t more due to her random vexations with the ‘Iron-heids of my husband’s blood’ than because the history was interesting. He had vastly preferred her many tales from the Orocarni, spending much of his youth trying to imagine the heat she had described, the vibrant colours he saw when she let him play with the veils and silks her cousins sent from the south.

“What an adorable wee lad you’ve got, Master Dwalin,” someone crooned. Dwalin’s head shot up, taking a few moments to recognize the Dwarf standing before him. He grinned.

“Thekk!” Dwalin exclaimed. “Haven’t seen your ugly mug round here for years!”

Thekk just laughed, stepping up and meeting Dwalin in the traditional warrior’s armclasp-and-headbutt greeting. Fíli stared wide-eyed at the stranger. Thekk looked like the Maker had been unsatisfied with his original work, and had afterwards set to correcting the mistakes through the application of scars. The Dwarf’s face bore a long cut from temple to opposite jaw that had taken part of his nose with it, both eyebrows were parted by vertical scars, the left side looking like claw-marks continuing down Thekk’s cheek and carving grooves in his grey beard. His smile was a lopsided snarl, but his eyes were kind. Fíli liked him.

“And who’s this wee laddie then?” Thekk asked, crouching down to Fíli’s level. Keeping a firm grip on Dwalin’s fingers, Fíli dared to reach out, patting Thekk’s half-missing nose. The warrior’s face split in a scary grimace but his eyes made it a smile. Fíli smiled back tentatively.

“This is Fíli,” Dwalin said, proud that the little one didn’t flinch away from what was indubitably a scary face.

“Never pegged you for a family-dwarf, Dwalin,” Thekk rumbled. “Good to see, lad, good to see.” Humming thoughtfully, Thekk tousled Fíli’s golden curls and then got to his feet.

“It’s not his,” interrupted Thekk’s companion. Dwalin recognized Lady Beurla with a scowl. The dwarrowdam – who had once been pretty, but ruined it with her vituperative nature – sneered at him. She had never forgiven Thraín for breaking off their affair and eventually marrying Frís. As the daughter and only child of Lord Nár, Thrór’s closest advisor, she considered Frís – the daughter of a _blacksmith!_ – beneath her and took vindictive pleasure in the fact that Frís’ daughter had married a miner with no ties to nobility, further thinning the royal blood in Beurla’s opinion. “That’s no son of Dwalin’s, Thekk, but Thorin Oakenshield’s Heir, born by Lady Dís-”

“Princess!” Dwalin growled angrily. Lady Beurla flinched. She might not be clever enough to keep her thoughts to herself, but she was clever enough to know that you angered Dwalin at your own peril – and if Thorin caught wind of the way she slighted his sister, his anger would land straight across her path.

“Well, I think he’s a bonny wee lad either way. My compliments to the lady Princess,” Thekk interjected, before Dwalin gave in to the impulse to take a swing at Beurla. “It was nice to meet you, wee Fíli,” he smiled. Fíli nodded, returning the smile shyly while his Uncle was still glaring daggers at Beurla. Thekk cleared his throat, “I didn’t mean to keep you, Dwalin, but we’ll have a pint soon, aye?” It wasn’t really a question and Dwalin simply nodded at the older Dwarf, one of his first commanders. Thekk took Beurla’s arm and steered her away from Dwalin’s roiling temper. Dwalin sighed heavily, staring after them.

“Yer a good lad, Fíli,” he said hoarsely, but Fíli saw that the smile didn’t reach his blue eyes which remained sad. Hugging Dwalin’s leg, he once more grabbed his large hand and set them back on their interrupted journey. Dwalin felt saddened that the small golden dwarf’s earlier exuberance had been smothered by their encounter. Swinging Fíli up on his shoulders and bouncing him with each step quickly brought the laugh back on Fíli’s face, and Dwalin didn’t even care about the sticky fingers smudging over his clean-shaven head. “Let’s go find some lunch, aye?”

“Yes, Uncle,” Fíli nodded, hugging Dwalin’s head happily.

 

“What’s an air, Amad?” Fíli asked, sleepily, as Dís was tucking him in for the night.

“An air?” she asked, confused for a few seconds.

“I’m Uncle Thorin’s air, Lady Beula said,” Fíli mumbled, still puzzled by the designation. How could he be air, when he was a solid Dwarfling? He hadn’t wanted to ask Uncle Dwalin at the time, the mean lady had made him sad.

“You’re an Heir, Fíli,” Amad replied, kissing his forehead. “Ask your Uncle tomorrow, galmith[1].” Fíli nodded sleepily, watching Amad’s soft smile until the softness of his blankets dragged him under the beckoning waves of sleep.

 

 

It was late afternoon before Fíli remembered his question.

“Uncle Thorin?” he asked, quietly, tugging at his sleeve, his fingers snagging on the frayed hem.

“Fíli?” When Uncle Thorin looked him, Fíli almost lost his train of thought.

“Why am I air?” he whispered, nervous. What if Uncle Thorin didn’t want him to be his air anymore? Maybe that mean lady told Uncle he was bad air?

“Beurla called him your heir, like it was a bad thing,” Dwalin said quietly, “I didn’t think about whether he knew what it meant.”

“Ahh, ruydayudê, come here,” Thorin said, lifting Fíli up to sit on his lap, suddenly able to see the top of the table and the mending spread out between the two dwarrow and Amadel. “You are my heir, not my air, Fíli,” Thorin said, his deep voice rumbling soothingly through Fíli’s small chest.

“But I’m a dwarf,” Fíli said, certain of that truth. The adults chuckled.

“You are my best dwarf,” Amadel promised, with a wink at Fíli. “Only don’t tell your Uncles. They both think _they’re_ my best dwarrow.” Dwalin’s loud guffaws mixed with Thorin’s deep rumble, but Fíli still didn’t know what it meant.

“It means that one day, all that is mine will belong to you,” Thorin said solemnly, putting down the holey tunic he was patching. “You know how we promised you that one day, when you’re big enough, we’d give you Víli’s swords and teach you to use them?” Fíli nodded, he had been told that, even if Amad had been annoyingly vague about when he would be ‘big enough’. “That means you are Víli’s heir, because you are his son,” Thorin continued, slightly hoarse. “But you are also my heir, an heir to the Line of Durin and the Throne of Erebor, because you are my sister’s son.”

“But if your son is your heir…” Fíli furrowed his brow, unknowingly copying one of Thorin’s oft-used expressions while deep in thought. “Does that mean I have to become your son too?”

“No, Fíli,” Dwalin replied, very gently. “But Thorin will not have a pebble of his own.”

“Why not?” Fíli asked. Uncle Thorin made a sound like someone had stepped on him, but Dwalin continued bravely.

“Because he loves you like a son, we have no need for another heir, Fíli,” Fíli nodded. In his young mind, it made sense. Hadn’t Amad promised that they would all love him the same, even with the new pebble?

“Will Kíli also be an heir,” Fíli tried hard to differentiate the two words; he did not quite manage, but it didn’t matter when Amadel smiled proudly at him.

“Yes Fíli, Kíli will also be my heir,” Thorin said, hugging Fíli who was beginning to think being Uncle Thorin’s heir – an almost son? He was already an almost son to Uncle – would not be so bad.

“What’s an Erebor? Can I have Deathless instead?” Fíli asked, frowning when Dwalin broke into another loud laugh.

“Erebor is a Mountain, Fíli, far, far away, and one day, yes, you may have Deathless,” Uncle Thorin promised solemnly, “…but only when I am dead and you are the King of our people.”

“Can Kíli be the King too?” Fíli asked, thinking that being a King of somewhere far away seemed like a lot of work. Maybe Kíli could do it when he was a little bigger and stopped crying so much?

“Kíli will help you be the best King you can be, I promise,” Uncle Thorin said, hugging Fíli again. It was nice, the hugging. Uncle Thorin didn’t hug him as much as Amad or Amadel. Dwalin most ruffled his hair and let him play climbing, but Uncle Thorin hugs were special, Fíli thought.

“Okay,” he nodded with a small yawn. “Can we have honeycakes for dessert? And milk?”

 

[1] Wee Glint


	12. A Slave of Fashion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Origin of Fíli's fashion sense:

“Amad, why is Uncle Thorin half-naked in the sitting room?” Fíli asked, looking up at his dark-haired amad. Dís laughed. Fíli found himself picked up, and firmly held on Amadel’s hip as the two dams returned to the sitting room where Uncle Thorin was scowling at the ceiling. His dark expression matched the colour of his hair, while Dwalin was lounging in an armchair across the room, obviously enjoying the spectacle.

“Because, raklûn,” Amadel whispered in Fíli’s ear, her beard tickling his cheek, “your Uncle Thorin is many things, but conscious about what he wears, he is not. Therefore, it is up to me, his dear aging amad, and his most obliging sister, to ensure that he leaves the house wearing presentable clothes. Today, we’re discussing fabrics and cuts with Master Dori when he arrives – you remember Master Dori?” she asked, bussing his cheek. Fíli nodded. Master Dori was the tailor who had explained to him how looms worked.

 

The rest of the day was a blur of Uncle’s scowls, Amad’s laughter, Master Dori fussing at people and Amadel commanding them all like an army general. Fíli thought it was highly entertaining.

Then it was _his_ turn.

So far in his life, Amad had made Fíli’s clothes, something Fíli had found dull when he needed to be measured but nothing like the process in which he was now getting involved. He was not even 8 years old, and already, he knew that he would do almost anything, _learn_ almost anything, if only he wouldn’t have to face Uncle Thorin’s humiliation as he grew older.

 

Fíli made a vow.


	13. Dread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What did Fili say to Kili in the Ravenhill tunnels?

“I’m scared, Fee,” Kíli whispered, making his older brother remember countless thunderstorms when Kíli had said those exact same words, in that exact same voice. This time, however, he could not let his little brother burrow under his blanket and snuggle while he promised him that the thunder wasn’t scary, wasn’t going to hurt Kíli, not as long as Fíli and Amad and Uncle Thorin and Dwalin were there to protect them. This time, there was only Fíli, and he had the sinking feeling of impending doom that told him he might not be enough to see Kíli safely through this storm. Above him, muffled by the stone walls between them, Azog the defiler roared. Fíli found his brother’s hand, giving it a squeeze.

“Everything will be fine,” he lied, knowing that his own panic and fear were clear in his eyes, and looking away from Kíli’s fade to hide it. Kíli squeezed back.

“Of course, it will!” he said, his voice high and falsely bright. Fíli tried to smile, though he feared it looked more like a grimace. “And when it’s all over, Uncle is going to be King, and Amad will come back to Erebor and we can show her all the places we found.” Kíli rambled, not letting go. Fíli let the babble fill him, the familiarity soothing, even as his mind told him they were unlikely to come through this war unscathed. “And then you’re going to find some nice lass and get married,” Kíli continued, “and make me an Uncle. Four times,” he added, “no, five.” Fíli couldn’t help but laugh, surprised but also slightly intrigued by the thought.

“And what about you?” he asked, keeping his ears pricked for the sound of any enemy as he let Kíli’s voice chase his fears back. “Aren’t you going to make ME an uncle?”

“Ahh, but I’m too young to be a parent!” Kíli cried, mock-serious. “Whereas you have already got experience from looking after me!” He chuckled. Fíli returned the smile. Suddenly, Kíli’s face lost its joking expression, turning serious. “Truly, Fee, you’ll be a great adad,” he whispered, and to Fíli’s ears it sounded like goodbye. “Promise me,” Kíli said, “no matter what happens today, you won’t forget to live.” Fíli choked, turning to face Kíli.

“Only if you promise me, too,” he whispered, catching the younger dwarf up in a bone-cracking hold. “Promise me, Kee, that you’ll do your very best to keep smiling, no matter what,” he whispered into dark hair, feeling more than hearing Kíli’s acceptance. The archer’s arms wrapped tight around him, returning the hug with a force that Fíli thought might leave bruises.

“Let’s go kill Azog, brother,” Kíli said, smiling almost brightly enough to dissipate the shadows Fíli could see in his eyes.

“Let’s go, Kee,” Fíli nodded, knocking his forehead against Kíli’s one last time.


	14. Mud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Fíli's birthday party

The two dwarflings were running through the mud with wild abandon, splashing murky water and dirt everywhere murky water could reach, which was usually places that rather surprised the adults who eventually had to clean the little terrors and their clothes. Thorin, at least, seemed to be constantly amazed by how much dirt a dwarfling could accumulate in hard to reach places, Dís thought, smirking at her older brother, who had made the perhaps-unwise bet that he could easily take care of everything practical in relation to Fíli’s 11th birthday. Her own tasks – aside from cooking with Frís, which nobody wanted Thorin to be responsible for – had been limited to the judging of contests and arbiter of the inevitable arguments that accompanied any dwarfling’s Name-Day celebration. Last year, that had been Thorin’s job, and Dís had found the three of them rolling her old plates down the hall, trying to find out how far a plate could roll – including measuring rope and markings on her clean floor with charcoal – based on the old song-game about Princess Katla’s much-abused possessions.

“Bath-time, Thorin,” Dís called in a sing-song tone designed to rile up older siblings since the dawn of time.

“KÍLI!” Thorin bellowed, running after one muddy lump on legs, while the other – distinguishable only by the loud shrieks of laughter emanating from the bog creature otherwise known as Fíli – clung to his back, leaving a large muddy patch on Thorin’s blue tunic. Dís sighed. The boys were full off too much sugar, and she felt quite smug when she closed the door to the kitchen behind her, sharing a conspiratorial glance with Dwalin and Frís before turning her attention to the washing up, humming the old song in tune with Dwalin’s deeper rumble as they tossed crockery back and forth.

 

“I’ve gots him, Kee, I’ve gots him!” Fíli shrieked, deafening Thorin’s left ear. Kíli whooped, putting on another burst of speed that Thorin did not know where he found. Possibly in the seven cookies he’d eaten while no one watched? “Ruuuun!”

“KÍLI!” Thorin bellowed again, making a grab for the small dwarf whose muddy arm slid out of his grasp easily. “Get back here, you little terror!” Thorin grumbled, cornering the small dwarfling.

“Nooo, Unca, noo!” Kíli wailed, though it was hard to hear for laughter. On Thorin’s back, Fíli had discovered the shiny silver clasp that held his hair back, and the tugs made Thorin wince. Sliding into a final tackle, the defacto King of the Longbeards caught his small quarry, swiftly catching one muddy dwarfling in one arm while the other prevented Fíli’s escape.

“Bath-time,” Thorin growled, firmly regretting his big mouth. _Who had thought it was a good idea to bet against Dís?_ He must have been out his mind with drink to think antagonizing his deviously vindictive sister was a good plan. ‘ _Just get them bathed and put to bed, Thorin_ ’ she’d said, smiling sweetly – Thorin had _not_ imagined the evil glint in her eye – before she turned to the two boys who had been playing relatively calmly, trilling out a loud ‘ _Bath-time, boys!_ ’ which had started this whole chase-and-mud-scenario. Thorin grumbled.

Booting the door to the bathroom closed, he began removing Kíli’s muddy clothes, while Fíli hand-tested the water temperature of their bath, rediscovering the joy of his old ‘Tidalwave’-game. Thorin sighed. Dumping one naked dwarfling in the tub with a stern admonishment to stay in the warm water, he scooped up Fíli – _wasn’t the boy old enough to undress himself yet?! Mahal wept_ – and dragged his trousers and tunic off too, the muddy clothes making a splat as they landed on the tiled floor. Dropping Fíli into the water obviously made Kíli hysterical that some of the water had hit his face. Wiping away those tears, Thorin felt the splashes of Fíli throwing water at _his_ face next. Blindly grabbing for soap and a washrag, Thorin tried to get a headstart by scrubbing Kíli clean first, only to feel even more water soak his clothes when Fíli clambered onto his back once more.

“You’re also dirty, Uncle,” the boy informed him, scooping handfuls of water onto Thorin’s stained tunic and pretending to clean it by scrubbing vigorously. Catching the small wheat-haired miscreant, Thorin dumped him back in the tub, having a moment of brilliance.

“Kíli, I think you should show your brother how to wash, you’re a big Dwarf, you know what to do,” he said, watching Kíli’s face light up as the dwarfling accepted the washrag – he wasn’t scrubbing the dirty places, obviously, but it was still a victory, Thorin crowed mentally – while Fíli stared at him with a look of abject betrayal when Thorin grabbed more soap and began to lather up his muddy hair, slowly revealing the gold beneath the dirt.

“I’m a big dwarf,” Fíli muttered sullenly. Kíli stuck out his tongue. Fíli retaliated by splashing water at Kíli again, which meant Thorin’s plan was not at all brilliant, the adult suddenly realised, when Kíli’s wails echoed against the walls, reverberating in Thorin’s skull.

“Fine,” he muttered, defeated, “you’re a big dwarf, so prove it. Wash all the mud from your body. Don’t forget to scrub behind your ears and between your toes,” Thorin sighed, handing Fíli his wash-cloth. The little dwarfling beamed. Thorin shook his head, ruffling the wet hair fondly.

Wiping away Kíli’s tears and humming soothingly, Thorin began scrubbing the darker head of hair, wondering at the similarity to his own. Kíli yawned.

 

When they were both reasonably clean, Thorin lifted them out of the large tub; it was too high for a dwarfling to get out of easily, even though he had made a small block of steps so they could get in. Dís had vetoed steps inside the tub, claiming that wet steps were far too dangerous, and Thorin had to agree when he tried to keep hold of the slippery and squirming dwarflings. Towelling the two off was another test of patience, when Kíli avenged Fíli’s earlier attack by flicking his brother with the towel and accidentally hitting Thorin’s thigh with force he had not believed a dwarfling possessed.

“Okay, boys,” Thorin sighed, when the two rascals were dressed once more in their sleeping clothes. “Time for bed.”

“Nooo!” Kíli yawned, petulant but almost too tired to keep his eyes open.

“Yeah!” Fíli added, “we haven’t had a bedtime story. We can’t go to sleep without a bedtime story.” Thorin prayed for strength. Picking up the both of them once more – Kíli was almost asleep already – Thorin made his way through the quiet house, finding the boys’ bedroom and sinking into the adult-sized chair Dwalin had made for Dís more than 12 years ago for this very purpose.

“Once, in a kingdom far away, there lived two princes…” he began, spinning a tale about a prank Frerin had once pulled on him and Dwalin, hiding all their practice weapons and making them late for Master Verrun’s class.

They were all asleep by the fourth sentence.

Inspired by this, made by @lorna-ka on Tumblr


	15. Rescuer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili to the rescue!

“That Dwarf is just too pretty,” Kíli sighed, staring dreamily into thin air.

“Who?” Fíli questioned, looking around but seeing no one but the Company in the vicinity. While they had a few lookers among them – Glóin was one of the best-looking dwarrow Fíli knew and Dori was downright beautiful – he rather thought his younger brother’s gaze hadn’t suddenly landed on one of their number. Travelling with the Company for months on end would have revealed any tender spots quickly, Fíli thought. Kíli sighed again, this time despondent.

“The cook,” he explained dreamily. Fíli stared at Bombur.

“Well… I suppose his wife thinks so?” he tried.

“Wife?” Kíli cried out in dismay. “But she’s too young to be married! Maybe? I mean, I’d like to…” Fíli had an epiphany.

“Wait, you mean Bombur’s assistant cook?” he asked, hoping the answer was yes; it was far less disturbing than thinking Kíli was mooning over a happily – and fruitfully – married Dwarf.

“Yes, of course,” Kíli replied, looking at Fíli like _he_ was the one making no sense. “She has such a pretty beard…” trailing off into dreamy imagination, Kíli returned to staring vacantly at the doors leading to the kitchen.

“Her name’s Gisla, nadad,” Fíli chuckled. He had actually spoken to the new cook for some time the day before about a mutual acquaintance in the Iron Hills.

“Gisla…” Kíli breathed reverently.

“Yes?” Gisla asked over his shoulder. “Ah, Prince Kíli, would you like another roll? Hot out the oven,” she offered, holding a small basket of deliciously fluffy rolls towards them. Kíli stared, making no move to take one as his cheeks flushed a deep red.

“We’d love some, Gisla,” Fíli said, covering for his daft brother and snapping up a pair of the small breads with a quick smile.

“You’re welcome, Fíli,” she smiled back, before moving down the table with her offerings.

“Why does she call you by name!” Kíli hissed, following the gentle sway of her hips with his eyes. Fíli shrugged.

“Because I told her to when I had an actual conversation with her, Kee?” he replied sarcastically. “Unlike _some people_ I can actually talk to dwarrowdams, you see.” Kíli scowled, nicking one of the rolls from Fíli’s hand. Then his face paled rapidly.

“Mahal’s Beard.” Kíli moaned. “What if she thinks I don’t like her because I didn’t tell her not to call me a Prince?” he whimpered, tearing pieces off his roll but forgetting to put them in his mouth, making a small pile of crumbs appear on his leg.

“Well, if you don’t eat her rolls, she’s definitely going to think you didn’t like _them_ ,” Fíli teased, surprised when Kíli stuffed the remainder into his mouth at once – including Fíli’s nicely buttered roll. The Crown Prince scowled. “Next time you see her, maybe just _talk_ to her, Kíli,” he sighed, getting to his feet. “Now come along, we’re late for meeting Uncle and the Council.”

“Good day, Prince Kíli, Fíli,” Gisla smiled, nearly bumping into them by the door. Kíli gave her a besotted smile – Fíli thought that was what it was, though it looked more like constipation to him. Apparently, Gisla agreed, studying Kíli curiously. “You don’t look well, Your Highness, if you permit,” she said, concerned. “Did the meal not agree with you?”

“You’re lovely,” Kíli mumbled.

“It was lovely,” Fíli covered loudly. “But we’re running late. C’mon, Kee.” Clasping his brother’s shoulder, Fíli steered him out the door, leaving Gisla to stare after them with a bemused smile on her face. “See you later Gisla!” he called over his shoulder, as he dragged Kíli along behind him, once more groaning in embarrassment.


	16. Fairytales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of scandinavian mythology for you today ;)

“Fíli, I need you to take care of your brother for me, alright?” Dís says, trying not to show that she is worried. “Go with Amadel, now, there’s a good lad.” Fíli nods; at almost 8 years of age he already feels responsible for the smaller dwarfling in the house, even if Kíli still cries a lot and makes nasty smells.

“Amadê,” Kíli cries, but Amadel is already herding them out of the house, while Dís is hurrying off towards the sound of the bells in the mine at the other end of the village. Fíli stares after her, his hand tight around Kíli’s to stop the little one running after their amad.

“C’mon, Kee,” he mumbles, his free hand fisting in Amadel’s skirt; she is carrying the ropemaker’s new pebble. Kíli looks up, his wide eyes glistening as he bites his lip. Fíli squeezes his hand. They walk to the main square; this is where everyone who isn’t helping is supposed to meet up, to ensure everyone’s safety. Amadel is the natural gathering point, her golden hair gleaming in the low sunlight of early winter. Someone has brought out a chair, which makes Amadel smile – she doesn’t walk so well these days, after she fell when they were going home from the forge and she had to stay in bed for a long time because cousin Óin said so.

“Fíli stay near me,” Amadel asks, but then she starts talking with someone Fíli doesn’t know, and Kíli sees something he has to investigate. Torn, Fíli looks back at Amadel, but Amad said to look after Kee…

“Kee!” he calls, trying to grab the back of Kíli’s blue tunic, but he’s too slow. “Kíli! Come back here!”

Fíli runs.

“Look, Fee!” Kíli shouts, waving at him from atop a barrel. Fíli wonders how he got up there. The barrel is taller than Kíli, but then he sees the bright flower. Kíli stole someone’s flower. They’re going to be in so much trouble!

“Kíli!” he shouts back, standing next to the barrel. “Put it back and come down here! We have to go back to Amadel.”

“But is for Amad,” Kíli mumbles, glaring at Fíli like it’s Fíli’s fault they’re going to get in trouble.

“If you come back now, I’ll tell you a story!” Fíli reaches for the small dwarfling. Kíli takes a few moments to decide, but then he runs across the line of barrels.

 

Sitting down next to Amadel, Fíli keeps a tight grip on Kíli as he thinks about what story to tell. The Dwarf talking to Amadel is the best fiddle-player in the village – Amad says so, and even Uncle Dwalin agrees… and Uncle Dwalin is the best viol-player Fíli knows, so it must be true.

“I’ll tell you a story about one of the Fossegrimen, Kíli,” Fíli says, wondering if he remembers all of it.

“What’s a Fossegrimen?” Kíli asks, but he’s sitting still, staring up at Fíli.

“Well, Fossegrimen are a little like Dwarrow,” Fíli begins, “but they live under waterfalls and they’re very skinny. Uncle Dwalin says they have red hair and moss-green eyes.” Kíli looks around, before looking back up at Fíli.

“But we’re made of stone,” he objects, and Fíli doesn’t really have an answer for that. Tugging at Amadel’s skirt, he looks up at her for an explanation.

“So we are, wee Kíli,” Amadel says, reaching down to ruffle their hair, “but Dwarrow are not all stone; we are stone made flesh. The Fossegrim, however, is a spirit of the Wilds, not a Dwarf.”

“Do they also look for treasure in the mine?” Kíli asks, and Fíli sees something sad in Amadel’s face when she shakes her head.

“No, Kee,” he replies, with all the exasperation of the five years between them. “Fossegrimen play music. They’re fiddlers.”

“You’re a fiddler!” Kíli shouts. Amadel laughs.

“Perhaps, he will be, Kíli,” she smiles, “but Fíli is not a Fossegrim.” Leaning down, she presses a kiss to Kíli’s dark curls. “He’s your brother, and you shouldn’t interrupt his story.”

“Yes, Amadel,” Kíli sighs, sitting back down.

“Well, once, there was a Fossegrim, who lived beneath a waterfall in the Grey Mountains, a very long way away,” Fíli began, “and every day he played his fiddle. Until one day, a Dwarf found him; his name was Fasta.”

 

… Fasta was walking through the forest, hunting for deer, when he first heard the strange music. Following the sound, he reached a river, and in the river he saw an unfamiliar creature. It was slender, long red hair flowing down its back as it danced from rock to rock, the sunlight making rainbows appear in its wake from the spray of the waterfall that seemed to follow the music. Fasta stared for a long time; entranced by the fiddler’s skill.

“Such beautiful music,” he whispered, taking a few steps away from the shelter of the tree. The fiddler stopped at the sound of the words, turning around to stare at Fasta. The fiddler jumped across the stones away from Fasta.

“No! Don’t run!” Fasta cried out, wishing he’d never spoken. The fiddler stopped. “Hello,” Fasta whispered, staring after the fiddler who had ducked behind a rocky outcropping and now peeked out at the Dwarf who held out a hand to stop him. “Who are you?” Fasta asked.

“Nykr,” the fiddler replied, blinking his large green eyes. The spray of water had drenched his fine clohes, but the fiddler did not seem to care.

“Hello, Nykr,” Fasta replied, “I am Fasta. Will you play some more?” Nykr seemed to consider it, before nodding slowly. Raising his bow, he put it to the strings, coaxing a light melody from the instrument as he stood beneath the falling water. Fasta smiled.

 

Hours later, the sun was setting, and Fasta got to his feet. Nykr had not left the water at all since Fasta had found him, taking up space on a small rock in the middle of the river as he played his fiddle.

“I have to go now,” he murmured, feeling sad that he would have to leave; he had enjoyed the music, but he had enjoyed looking at Nykr, whose looks seemed less foreign the more he looked, even more so.

“Will you return?” Nykr asked, putting down his bow and staring at Fasta. The Dwarf nodded. Nykr smiled, revealing sharp teeth.

 

Weeks passed, and Fasta kept returning to the waterfall, listening to the fiddler, spending hours listening to Nykr’s enchanting music and speaking to him of all things and no things, as the mood struck him.

 

“Will you teach me to play like that?” Fasta asked one day, staring at the clouds from his prone position on the rock Nykr liked to sit on when he played.

“To learn will cost you,” Nykr whispered. “All skills have a cost.”

“I will pay it,” Fasta swore. Nykr smiled, but this time he seemed sad.

“Meat, it will cost,” he murmured, “meat of the finest kind and cuts.” He looked straight at Fasta. “If you do not pay the proper price… I cannot teach you.” One of his long thin fingers traced one of Fasta’s; the Dwarf’s hands were broad, his fingers thick and scarred with the marks of his trade. “Do you still wish to learn?”

 

… “For months, Fasta learned from Nykr, paying him the best cuts of the deer he killed when he went hunting,” Fíli explains to a wide-eyed Kíli, “and in return, the Fossegrim taught him how to play the fiddle, better than any other Dwarf. It was said that Fasta could change the weather when he played, or even make the trees grow legs and dance.”

“Dancing trees?” Kíli asks, clearly awed by the thought. Fíli nods seriously.

“Yep. It was magic, Kee,” he claims, returning to the story…

 

 

… “Marry me,” Fasta asked, one evening when he was preparing to leave his friend for the night. Nykr stiffened, falling off his rock.

“You… want to marry me?” he spluttered, when Fasta pulled him out of the river.

“Yes.” Fasta’s face felt hotter than fire, but he soldiered on regardless: “I love you.”

“You love the music,” Nykr soothed, but Fasta could see the sadness in him as he set the bow back on the rock along with his fiddle.

“And you,” Fasta swore, “…mostly you.” Nykr shook his head, guiding Fasta back to the brink.

“Soon I will have taught you all you need to know,” Nykr sighed, “then you will see it was only the music you loved.”

“I will not; I swear to you,” Fasta cried, but Nykr did not listen, heading back to stand beneath the waterfall as he played a slow tune; a mournful song that spoke to Fasta’s heart of longing and gave him hope.”

 

 

 

 

“I have taught you everything, now,” Nykr revealed one late spring evening. “It is time for me to depart this place, leave behind those who will not pay the price.”

“Stay with me.” Fasta blurted it out, catching Nykr’s long fingers with his own stocky fist. “Stay with me, marry me, _love_ me…”

“I am not a Dwarf,” Nykr muttered, but Fasta did not care. “I cannot stay with you.” Trailing drops of water, he ran a single fingertip along Fasta’s eyebrow.

“Do you… not care for me?” Fasta asked, tortured. Nykr’s eyes widened.

“I will always be your friend,” he swore, “but you should save your love for someone of your own kind.”

“Dwarrow only love once. I shall love none but you,” Fasta admitted, “even if you leave and never return, I shall remain devoted to you.”

“I…” Nykr hesitated. Fasta squeezed his hand.

“It is alright, Nykr,” he whispered. “Just remember that… I love you.” Pressing one kiss to the slender fingers, tasting drops of water left behind on his lips, Fasta let go of Nykr’s hand, the salt of his tears mingling with the water from Nykr’s touch as he walked back towards his home…

 

“I don’t like this story; it’s sad,” Mjoll grumbles from her perch on her older brother’s lap. Fíli scowls at her. Several other dwarflings have joined them sitting next to Amadel, obviously listening to Fíli’s story.

“It’s not finished yet!” he cries. Kíli yawns; he hasn’t had his nap today.

“Is Amad back yet?” Kíli wonders, looking around for a glimpse of Dís’ dark hair. Fíli shakes his head.

“Not yet, kafnith,” Amadel says, leaning down to ruffle Kíli’s equally dark hair and squeeze Fíli’s shoulder. “Why don’t you pass the time by telling the rest of the story of Fasta?” she adds, smiling down at Fíli, who beams up at her. In his arms Kíli nods; he likes stories a lot.

“Then what happened, Fee?” Kíli asks. Mjoll is nodding along with Kíli’s question. Fíli smiles.

“Well, Fasta quickly became famous,” Fíli reveals, winking at the small crowd, “and soon enough people followed him to the river, because he kept visiting Nykr every day, having fallen in love with his water-sprite and attempting to court him. Some people asked to be taught, but they offered Nykr less fine cuts; meat of old animals that was tough and stringy. To those people, the Fossegrim did impart skills – but he only taught them to tune a fiddle, and they were forever cursed to long for the music they had heard but could not reproduce, feeling no satisfaction in the music they could play…”

 

 

…“Why do you keep visiting me?” Nykr asked one day, staring at Fasta who had created himself a bench by the riverbank months ago where he could sit and watch Nykr play in the water, see the way the spray made rainbows appear in his hear and listen to the music he would play from time to time. “You’re not supposed to keep visiting when I’m done teaching you,” he admitted, “I did not expect to see you again,” he continued breezily, but Fasta knew him well enough by now to see the way the thought pained him. The Dwarf’s heart beat a little faster.

“I have told you,” Fasta murmured, remaining on his bench and smoking his pipe, “you are my One, I will not abandon you even if you could order me away. I love you, and that will not change.”

“How?” Nykr whispered, suddenly standing before Fasta. He moved swifter than any Dwarf, though he was not much taller; slender as an elf with the long fingers that so fascinated his former student when they gripped his instrument. “How can you love me, when I am not your kind?”

“I love you, Nykr, for your kindness and patience, for the wildness and joy that lives in your heart, the fire in your hair and the quickness of your mind.” Fasta spoke carefully, holding out his hand to catch Nykr’s cool fingers, dotted with droplets of water. “I love you.” Nykr stared, his fingers so different from Fasta’s thick digits, which had proven to be surprisingly nimble as they played the fiddle. “Does your kind… not love?” Fasta whispered, breaking Nykr’s fascinated gaze. The Fossegrim’s fingers played unconsciously across the Dwarf’s skin as he stared into Fasta’s grey eyes.

“You have water eyes,” Nykr finally whispered, “like a river stone I once found. There is strength in you, and temper, and kindness. The way you look at me makes me want to play you beautiful music, makes me want to have you with me always so I can watch your face any time I like. The sunlight in your hair… I want to touch it; I want to make you long for my touch as I once made you long for the sound of the music.” Fasta groaned, tugging on Nykr’s fingers until he could wrap them around one of the braids in his dark hair. “I want to keep you, though I know you would not stay for long; I want to let you go… because it would be better for you if you did, even if I would wish for your presence when you have gone.” Nykr’s voice was dreamy as his fingers played with the dark strands. “I love you, Fasta the Dwarf… my Fasta.”

“Marry me.” Fasta’s whisper made the Fossegrim stiffen, and this close Fasta saw the tears in his eyes. “Marry me and come back to live with me and my kin,” he pleaded, “you wouldn’t ever have to worry about me leaving you.” Nykr closed his eyes for a long time. Then he nodded.

“Yes.”

 

… “For many years, Nykr lived with Fasta,” Fíli continues, “teaching the children of the Clan to play music – not just fiddles, for he was skilled with all manner of instruments – though he continued to return to his river, to stand in the water and play. Together, they were the most famed musicians in the Kingdom.” On his lap, Kíli is nearly asleep, quietly leaning against Fíli’s chest.

 

 

…Fasta grew older, and though the strength of his heart never waned, the power of his legs diminished, until he could no longer walk to the river where he had first met his husband. Nykr stopped going, claiming that he felt no joy in it if he could not play for Fasta, but the Dwarf worried. Something was different about his Nykr, who had changed so little since he had moved to live with Fasta inside the mountain, but who now began to diminish. His skin turned greyer and his hair lost some of its fire, even his music suffered, the tunes becoming melancholy and wistful.

“You need the water, my love,” Fasta whispered from his bed one evening. Nykr looked up, startled.

“I don’t want to leave you…” he murmured, looking down at his old fiddle. Fasta smiled gently, reaching for him. Nykr moved to sit on the edge of the bed, stroking Fasta’s hair. “You have grown frail, my beloved, and soon you will join your forebears in the Halls of you Maker.”

“I am sorry,” Fasta replied with a sigh. “I never wished to break my promise.”

“I know.” Nykr smiled sadly, pressing a kiss to Fasta’s forehead. “But I am not a Dwarf, and I am not mortal…”

“Will you go back to the river when I am gone?” Fasta asked, unsurprised; he had always known what Nykr was, after all. “Be my lovely water-sprite again?” Nykr shuddered.

“I love you,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it. It will claim my life, in the end, but it will have been worth every moment we have shared,” Nykr admitted. Fasta gasped.

“No!” His objection was loud in the stone room. Nykr shook his head, pressing Fasta gently back into the mattress.

“Yes!” he cried out. “Please, my love, do not struggle.” Fasta scowled at him, but fell back on his pillows with a loud sigh.

“Promise me you will go back to your river when I am gone,” he pleaded. “I do not wish for you to die, too.”

“I cannot, Fasta,” Nykr whispered, and the Dwarf saw the truth in his eyes. “I bound myself to you, and if I do not follow you, I will become that which is not…” he swallowed hard. “I am a Fossegrim,” he smiled, caressing Fasta’s sunken cheek, “a river-spirit. We are mischievous, but kind, and we do not wish harm upon the Children of Eru, though we will trouble those who do not pay us properly for our teachings. You asked me to be yours, to give you my love in return for your and I have done so, husband,” he murmured. Fasta’s eyes closed. “To ask me now to live without that love, however… I could never return to what I was, for you have changed the very heart of me, my Fasta.”

“I don’t want you to die.” Fasta repeated his plea, staring balefully at Nykr, who smiled sadly.

“Without you, I will become something else, my love, I will become one of the Nøkke, a twisted spirit of water. I would still play, from my home in a lake, but my music would haunt the ears of its listeners, would lure them to me… and I would kill them, eat their flesh and build flutes from their bones. I would have no love in me for anything, not even music, and I would not teach anyone to play, instead my life would be a cycle of unending death until someone killed me, released the malevolence of my being into the void and I would be no more.” He shook his head, kissing Fasta gently, “No, husband, I would not wish to be so altered. I would not want to be a killer, would not wish to cause the death of our friends, f your kin, or anyone wandering by.”

“I’m sorry,” Fasta whispered, but Nykr hushed him.

“I have lived many seasons before you came, and I have lived all these years with you. I would not wish to return to my old life, even if I could, now that I have known this love. Do not apologise. I chose to follow you here, to this life.” Nykr smiled, squeezing his hand. “Now I will follow you out of this life.”

 

...“When Fasta died, his kinsmen built him a pyre as was their custom, intending to seal the ashes in stone as Dwarrow had done for millennia.” Fíli says. “Nykr waited until it was burning, and then he walked into the fire, lying down beside his love, and gave up his life, becoming a cloud of steam above the pyre. And then!” he makes a dramatic pause, looking around the circle of Dwarflings whose attention is glued to him. “As the fire burned, the Voice of Mahal spoke from the flames, and all the watchers fell to their knees. ‘ _Welcome to my Halls, Child of Ulmo_ ,’ He said, and they all heard Nykr’s soft voice reply, asking the Maker what had happened. ‘ _He is waiting for you inside_ ,’ Mahal’s Voice boomed, ‘ _You should join him before my Son worries too much about your fate_.’ ‘ _Can I stay with him?_ ’ Nykr asked, and Mahal chuckled. ‘ _Were you not married to a Dwarf, Nykr, Child of Ulmo?_ ’ He asked kindly. ‘ _And is it not true that a Dwarf may only marry a Dwarf?’_ ‘ _Yes…_ ’ Nykr replied, seeming hesitant. Mahal laughed again. ‘ _Are you not, then, a Dwarf? Now go join your fretful husband, Nykr the Dwarf._ ’ ‘ _Yes… Mahal_.’ Nykr replied, just as the last flames died.” With a final flourish of his hands, simulating the death of the flames, Fíli finishes his story.

“Well done, raklûn,” Amadel whispers, her hand squeezing Fíli’s shoulder as the Dwarflings applaud his story wildly.

“Is it true that Uncle Dwalin is a descendant of Fasta?” he asks quietly. Amadel chuckles.

“Perhaps he is, Fíli,” she smiles, “he is certainly gifted with a fiddle, and he does have what we call water eyes… I simply do not know.”

“He didn’t turn into steam when he burned his hand last week,” Fíli admits with a slight frown; clearly evidence against his theory, even if he kind of likes the idea of his Uncle being a son of the most famous fiddler in their history. Amadel chuckles, but Kíli looks up in sudden fear.

“Uncle Dwalin can’t turn into water,” he objects, “who’s going to help us with cookie raids then?!” Fíli nods seriously; that is a good point. Amad wouldn’t be up for it nearly as often, and Uncle Thorin is gone a lot, too.

“I’m certain your Uncle will be around for many years of raiding your amad’s cookie jar,” Amadel soothes, stroking Kíli’s hair.

“Pwomise?” Kíli demands, staring up at her.

“I promise, kafnith[1],” Amadel smiles, picking up Kíli and holding him on her own lap, stroking his hair until he falls asleep. Fíli leans against her leg, wrapped in a fold of her cloak as he, too, succumbs to the lure of a nap.

 

“Up you get, lad,” Uncle Dwalin’s rumble wakes him, but not enough to make him fully alert, relaxing into the strong hold as he is carried home.

“Uncle?” Fíli murmurs, feeling Dwalin tuck him into bed. “You’re not going to become water, right?” Dwalin’s low chuckle is a reassuring and familiar sound in Fíli’s ear.

“No, Fíli-lad, I’m a solid Dwarf all the way through. Now go to sleep.” Tension leaves him at the words: If Dwalin says so, it’s as good as a promise.

“Yes, Uncle…” Fíli whispers, feeling Amad’s soft beard press against his cheek when she kisses him goodnight, registering the familiar sound of Dwalin’s heavy footfalls as the two adults walk away from his and Kíli’s room.

 

 

[1] Carving that is young (nickname for small dwarfling)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Fossegrim and Nøkke are real Scandinavian folkloric creatures, who behave much as I have described, though the story of Fasta and Nykr is my own devising. It's also unclear why some spirits are the benevolent Fossegrim and others are the malevolent Nøkke, even if they both have to do with water and fiddles - the relationship between the two types of spirit is my own take on it ;)


End file.
